


Saving The Light

by Insidiot



Category: Houston Knights
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:54:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insidiot/pseuds/Insidiot
Summary: Levon and Joe serve a routine warrant, and end up struggling to stay alive in a place where justice will not be denied.
Relationships: Joe LaFiamma & Levon Lundy





	1. The Fading Light

**Author's Note:**

> In memory of a couple of beloved Houston Knights fans: Arrow - whose still waters ran deep, and RanchGal - who lived her life under the wide open sky and continues on in the Wild Blue Yonder.
> 
> I took this down because of all the mistakes I kept finding. Now I know: I will never stop finding mistakes. I’ve put my foot on it, pried it out of my hands, and reposted it. At least I know I won’t be quitting my day job.

He is _thisclose_ to losing his mind: no radio, no conversation, just the drone of the tires buzzing around in his ears and the sun trying its damnedest to bore a hole through the back of his head; there's tangled vegetation as far as he can see.

A flash of light pulls his attention back to the road and he squints through the shimmering air. There's a distant, hazy vision floating above the tangled vegetation: busy traffic, tree-lined avenues, and the reflection of sunlight on buildings; it has to be a mirage because the closest town is hours ahead - and it’s upside down.

The scene fades away; he muses how such illusions beckoned and deceived the unwary long ago, hope enticing them farther and farther until they dropped that final time, trying to get to something that wasn’t there.

The fleeting glimpse of civilization is a painful contrast to his current situation: his aching butt is rocking back and forth in a jacked-up redneck-mobile; his only alternative to the clammy AC is to be blasted in the face by the sweltering slipstream of the truck, and he can’t even stretch the soreness from his back without cracking his head on the rifle mounted in the gun-rack behind him.

He shakes off his irritation and sighs with relief as the sun drops behind a distant cloud, its edges glowing like embers of burning paper. He slides his Wayfarers to the top of his head and rubs the bridge of his nose.

"What're ya gittin' so windy about, LaFiamma?"

Well look who’s finally awake, although he suspects his taciturn partner’s been awake the whole time. After switching driving duties Lundy had promptly draped himself all over the passenger side of the Jimmy: one booted foot up on the dash, chin on his chest, and his white Stetson pulled down over his face to block the sunlight.

The sight of his partner gives him pause; maybe it was his blond hair or fair skin, but he always seemed to be the brightest thing in the room. Long, lean, and wiry; he invariably wore a button-up Western shirt tucked neatly into snug jeans held together with a large, Western belt-buckle. He can’t forget the obligatory cowboy hat, and of course - boots. A good cowboy, as he’d been informed, did everything with his boots on. He still wasn’t sure if they’d been joking or not.

"One of the best sunsets I've seen in a while, probably the only good thing about living out here." He frowns at the spiky chaparral. “There’s nothing here. Why would anyone want to live in a place like this?"

Levon gives a small grunt as he slides upright in his seat and pushes his Stetson to the back of his head.

"Peace'n quiet?"

Joe takes a deep breath to cool his rising temper and leans forward to pull out the headlight switch; he stretches the heavy muscles of his back, rolls his neck, leans back against the seat and bumps his head against the rifle stock.

Levon smiles slightly at Joe’s irritated grunt and removes his Stetson, running his fingers through his long hair. "Oh, I don't know," he looks out at the darkening plain, "I been through neighborhoods in Houston that looked just as empty as it does here." He nods toward the sunset. "Maybe people who live out here really do want peace a some sort, the quiet just comes natur'ly."

"I would be bored out of my mind if I lived out here," Joe mutters.

"So yer sayin' ya'd miss the traffic, pollution, garbage - all the low-lifes we have ta deal with ever' day..."

"What would you do for fun?" He taps the steering wheel with every point he makes, "No movies, no concerts, no museums, no big grocery stores; you’re cut off from civilization - you can't even watch the grass grow because everything is dirt," he gestures at their surroundings.

"Good lord, LaFiamma, ya make it sound like ever'body out here lives in a hole. I'd be willin' ta bet they have ‘lectricity and television. Goin' ta clubs and chasin' women ain't ever'body's idea a livin'."

"That's not my idea of living," his hand rises up with his volume, "just because I like to meet people and go out on dates doesn't make me a bad person. Your idea of a good time is drinking beer at Chicken's every damn night and playing pool."

"I happen ta like spendin' time with my friends, which I don't get ta do every night 'cause I'm too busy chasin' crim'nals through all the wonderful traffic, garbage, and pollution."

"What's the matter; you getting burned out?" he smirks. "Why don't you quit and move out here; you can raise cactus and sell saddles to the tourists."

"Already been saddled with one tourist." He plops his Stetson back on his head and studiously ignores Joe's glare to watch the dusk chase the sunset.

Joe clenches his teeth so hard his head begins to ache. How could he think they had enough in common to commiserate about the middle of nowhere - nothing to see, place they were headed. He should've known the proud Texan would take offense at any criticism to his beloved state.

He'd been hoping that this trip would allow them to get to know each other a little better, but instead, nothing but silence. Every time he opens his mouth, he inadvertently criticizes Lundy, Major Crimes, Texas - you name it; he has to get himself out of this vicious cycle, but in his defense - he’s continually on defense.

He’s tired of seeing the quiet dismissal, the hard-edged decision of who he is, in Levon's eyes. He knows his own attitude isn’t helping; he’d initially dismissed Lundy the same way. They’d got off to a bad start and he’s trying to change that, but with every derisive comment from the squad, each voiced doubt about his skill as an officer; the sullen looks, and sympathetic remarks to Levon about being stuck with him; he needs to prove them wrong, to prove his worth - that - and he isn't about to take any shit from a bunch of backward hicks.

He turns off the main road and they travel in moody silence for almost two hours until the town of Bailey's Prairie comes into view. Huddled in a broad, shallow valley - if it weren't for their angular lines, the buildings would blend into the surrounding terrain.

The town closes in around them, shutting out the open plain and the soft light of the rising moon. The buildings spill their inky shadows into the street, and not one window has a light shining in welcome.

His hopes for the warm light of civilization dashed, he looks out the window and sees his frown reflected back at him. Without the generously lit high-rises and street lights holding it back the darkness swallows them like an empty void, feebly pushed back by the dirty headlights of the Jimmy.

"What were you saying about electricity, Lundy?"

Levon leans forward and squints through the dusty windshield. "Believe I see a light burnin' up ahead."

Increasing his speed he strains to catch sight of the light his partner had discovered.

"It's the sheriff's office." Levon points at a pale, stone building with a weathered sign jutting out over the wooden steps.

He rolls into a parking space and turns off the engine. They sit, looking out at the dark street, listening to the ticking of the Jimmy's hot engine.

Joe looks over at him uncertainly so he slowly opens his door and steps out into unsettling silence. Levon can feel the lingering heat rising from the pavement as he looks around at the shadowy buildings lining both sides of the street. His eyes follow the moon dappled road until it disappears into the dark horizon and meets an eternity of stars.

He begins to wonder if Joe doesn't have a point about nothin' ta do; it ain't so late that a whole town should be abed. He turns to make a comment to Joe and finds himself up close and personal with his unhappy partner.

"G..., dang it, LaFiamma," he hisses in suppressed ire.

"I don't like this," his baritone is strong even though his voice is low.

"Don't like what, the peace 'er the quiet?"

"More like rest in peace." He looks around nervously. “Geeze, what’d he do - stay up late to meet us?”

"Maybe they're all tuckered out from watchin' the grass grow," he drawls in smooth sarcasm.

"Tuckered?" Joe has that look of weary annoyance he gets when he’s confronted by yet another southern term. He might as well add another word to Joe’s primer.

He gives a short nod. "Plumb tuckered."

He walks around the disgruntled Italian and heads for the shadowed porch of the sheriff's office, smiling at the heavy tread close on his heels. His carefree boot-steps thunk loudly in the silence and he lightens his next two strides with self-conscious caution. _'Guess I'm a little spooked myself.'_

He politely raps on the heavy, wooden door and it groans in protest as he pushes it open. He presses his lips tight to stifle a snicker at the tense muttering behind him.

As they enter the dimly lit room an older man stands up and walks around a large desk to greet them. He looms over them like a tree made of sinew and bone, dark hair hangs down his back in a tight braid, and a deep tan makes his blue eyes glow like the light of day.

A twinge of alarm pops inside Levon’s chest and he tries not to twitch in the sharp, assessing light of those eyes. Joe’s reaction is to lift his chin in challenge and he knows he better head-off his surly partner quick.

"We're from Houston P.D.; I'm Sergeant Lundy, this here is my partner, Sergeant Laff'iama." Joe shoots him a pissed look at the intentional mispronunciation. “Are you Sheriff Tapia?”

“The sheriff’s name is Coyle,” his voice rumbles like distant thunder, “she ain't here right now. What can I do for ya?" 

"The sheriff's a woman?" and Levon envisions a mental forehead smack at Joe's blunt query.

The big man’s eyes flick down and up again, noting Joe’s upscale clothing. ”Can't get anythin' by you city boys can we?" His teeth and his badge flash, and Levon’s unease hatches into the heebie-jeebies that skitter up his spine.

"What he means ta say is, we was under the impression the sheriff was a fella."

"I don't need you to speak for me," Joe growls.

"Pardon me," he lilts sweetly, "while yer at it, ask 'im how old she is an' how much she weighs."

Joe turns away and ignores him. "We were told Sheriff Tapia would be our contact - doesn't this place have any lights?"

"What'n the hell is the matter with you," Levon's voice goes hard, "ain't you got no manners..."

"Yes, I have manners; I can't see a damn thing, this is exactly what I was talking about..."

"LaFiamma, they have electricity..." He jabs his finger at the lamp on the desk.

"You boys have business here?"

His bemused look abruptly halts their argument, and both men sheepishly fumble for identification and transfer papers.

"We have a warrant for," Joe proffers the warrant and transfer documents, "Loyda Gallardo, to be transferred back to Houston on murder and attempted murder charges."

"Well now, let's see those." He sits down on the corner of the desk and pulls the lamp closer.

"Uh," Joe lowers his eyebrows at Levon to preclude any protest, "you gonna turn on the lights?"

“Need ta save the light,” he answers distractedly, "'lectricity costs tax-payer money - these are all in order."

"Ya need ta sign them papers so we can transfer custody."

He gives a short nod. "Just as soon as ya take 'im inta custody, I'll do that."

 _‘Uh - oh, here we go’_ ; but Joe takes a slow, deep breath and says evenly, "How about we go get him then.”

Levon’s impressed; but the man shakes his head. "Cain't do that, he ain't back there."

Joe draws himself up. "What the…”

 _‘Yep, there he is.’_ Levon touches Joe’s arm briefly. "We're a mite confused; the prisoner was s'posed ta be here at the jail for pickup. Are we in the right place?"

"Yes, and no," the deputy crosses his arms and sends a steady look back at Joe's scowl, "we couldn't risk keepin' 'im here, his compadres might come for 'im. Cain't put the whole town in danger for one loco criminal."

"Where's he bein' held?"

"Out at Rueben Brodeur's place. Head out through the other end a town an' take county road one-twelve ta the left, just before Wheeler's gas station; first house ya see."

"You ain't comin’ with us?"

"Got somebody else locked up ta'night, cain't leave 'em. I'll let Sheriff Coyle know yer comin’.” He steps back around his desk and sits down. “Vaya con Dios."

Joe shoots Levon a brief, irritated look. “e Dio sia con voi," he grumbles, and stomps out of the front door.

He turns a weary eye to the lawman. ”We're on channel nineteen - is there a local channel ya want us on?"

"We're usin' channel eleven out here.”

The man reminds him of the Chesire cat: eyes, teeth, and badge all picking up the light from the small desk-lamp. He gives him a nod and reluctantly turns his back on the guy to leave.

He steps out into the cooling night and pauses at the top of the steps. Joe is standing by the Jimmy, drawn up tall and stiff, looking down the road they are about to travel. Joe's stance triggers his earlier unease and he finds himself straining to catch the sound of a television, a car - but not even a coyote makes its presence known.

Pushing up the brim of his Stetson he tries to catch movement, any sign of life other than his pensive partner. His eyes are drawn to the glittering heavens - immense and crowded with points of light - maybe that’s where all the lights from town are…

He shrugs off the weight of their scrutiny; he’s beginnin’ to fancy he can hear the planet rotatin’.

He draws in a deep breath to dispel his rumination, descends the steps, and gives Joe another look-see as he approaches. His partner definitely has his back up; Joe’s aura of tension has him drawing up himself, shifting his weight to his toes - he’s ready to go.

He suspects Joanne had put LaFiamma with him on purpose. LaFiamma was a go-getter, no doubt; makin' him lift his chin and lengthen his stride, but god-a-mighty, he had lost his temper more these last five months than his whole time with Houston P.D. The man was about as friendly as a grizzly with a stick in its eye.

Their brawl at Gilley's hadn't settled much between them, but it did lay one of his worries to rest: all that muscle wasn’t for show; the city boy could hold his own in a fight. He recalls the deputy's comment on Joe being a city boy and realizes - he’s outta his element: no city lights, no bustlin' streets; it's so quiet ya can actually hear yerself think. Maybe not a good thing in Joe's case. Time ta snap him out of it.

Settling his Stetson down on his head and bracing himself for the continuation of their hostilities, he holds out his hand for the keys to the Jimmy.

“Reckon I know why ya wear them fancy, leather loafers all'a time;" he tilts his head, "as much as ya put yer foot in yer mouth, it's the closest thing ta food ya can wear on yer feet."

"Shut the hell up, Lundy." He slaps the keys into Levon's hand and storms to the passenger side of the Jimmy. "Is it too much to ask that we pick up a prisoner at the jail?" He slams the door spitefully, hoping it will wake up someone in this dead end town. "Now we gotta drive further into the middle of nowhere and get this guy; it's more trouble than it's worth."

"Seems ta be pretty fair reasonin' ta me," Levon slides behind the steering wheel, "if there's trouble from Gallardo's buddies, there won't be any civilian casualties."

“He was headed for the border, I doubt any of his gang came with him. How is one sheriff gonna hold off Gallardo's gang anyway?"

“He might have family down here; the deputy didn't seem worried about 'em. Prob'ly just a precaution."

"I've got some precautions of my own," he grouses, and removes his pistols, checking each one carefully.

Levon switches the channel on the radio and checks the mirrors as he drives through the silent town. "Keep yer eye out fer tag alongs and let's git this over with."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vaya con Dios. - Go with God.  
> e Dio sia con voi. - And God be with you.


	2. Out Like A Light

His headlights sweep left across the weather-scoured sign at Wheeler's gas station; he navigates the county road, which deteriorates into a dusty, eroded 'wagon trail' - as Joe calls it in disgust - which then necessitates fording a shallow creek that disappears into a copse of trees near the road.

"Hey, you passed what looked like a driveway before the creek."

"It was growed up with weeds'n small trees; looks like it ain't been used in a while."

"He said the first house, Lundy."

"The first house ya see - didn't see one. Look up there." He lifts his chin toward the house coming into view. "Lit up like a Christmas tree."

"Well, at least someone pays their electric bill."

He rolls to a stop in the empty yard, just short of the border where the warm glow of the porch light pushes back the cold silver of the moon.

"Take it slow, don't want 'er ta git nervous."

"I'm the one who's nervous - there's someone in the upstairs window. I don't like this one damn bit."

"He told me he'd call ahead, let 'er know we was comin'."

"Why couldn't the sheriff bring him to the jail?”

"Boy, what the hell is yore deal? Ya been thrummin' like a guitar string since we made town."

"The sooner we pick this guy up, the sooner I'll change my tune - don't say it..." he glares at Levon's grin. The cowboy likes to tease when he slips up and speaks what Levon calls, 'Texan'.

Both men fasten their badges to their belts and slide their weapons free as they approach the house.

"No chairs on the porch," Joe comments suspiciously.

"No point, no grass in the yard fer entertainment."

Joe snorts. Their easy banter settles his nerves, makes things feel a little more routine; after all, they have done this very thing many times over their short partnership. They may not get along, but they’re a good team.

"Drop back, I'll knock on the door."

"No, I go first," Joe replies brusquely, and leaves his annoyed partner to back him up.

He climbs the steps to the dusty screen-door and knocks forcefully, rattling its frame. “Sheriff Coyle; Sergeant LaFiamma, Houston Police."

He takes up a position beside the door and waits.

And waits.

He sends Levon a questioning look. His partner scans the front of the house, then gives a short shake of his head.

"I told you, this is the wrong house," Joe whispers fiercely.

"No it ain't."

"Then where's her car at?"

"Prob'ly 'round back, she don't want ever’body knowin' where she's at. It's called keepin’-a-low-profile."

Joe gives him a 'yeah-right' look and knocks again. "Sheriff Coyle, Deputy..." He frowns at Levon. "He didn't tell us his name."

"Nope, he never did."

"I'm gonna get on the radio and tell that lazy, hick sheriff to get her butt out here and transfer Gallardo to us, right - damn - now."

Levon shifts his weight to one foot and cants his hips. Joe knows he is about to get a rebuke when suddenly Levon's eyes lift upward, and then so do his arms. When he drops his eyes back down to look at him, Joe sees a warning.

"Don't move, Joe," he says sharply.

He scowls and pivots toward Levon.

"God in Heaven, boy, don't move."

The heavy note of fear in Levon's voice freezes him to the spot. In his peripheral vision he sees a man advancing across the porch, pointing a rifle at his head.

Another man rounds the opposite corner of the house with a shotgun, scuttling quickly into the yard toward Levon. He stops several feet away and points the barrel mid-way between them, able to cover either of them.

Checkmate.

========================

"Son of a bitch," Joe growls at the retreating men.

The last one out gives him a baleful look, turns out the light, and shuts the door.

They're in a dirt floor basement crowded with wooden crates, small piles of weapons and ammunition scattered everywhere. Joe pulls at the cuffs restraining his arms, but the sharp bite of unyielding steel is all he gets for his effort.

The rope burns his skin as it pulls tight around his throat; his eyes pulse with his heart beat and flashes of light flare in his vision. He lifts himself up on his toes to ease the pressure. 

"I knew something was wrong the minute we hit town," Joe grits in muted fury.

"Calm down..." Lundy's disembodied voice soothes from the darkness.

"Calm down? How long do you think we can keep this up before we hang ourselves, huh?"

"Quit whinin' and listen..."

"You're the one not listening. The hell with my manners - when I see that deputy…”

"LaFiamma..."

"And so help me, if I hear one more disparaging remark about traffic, garbage, or pollution, I'll belt you in the mouth."

"I got a cuff key - need yer help," he grunts softly, "cain't reach it."

"Where is it?"

"In the watch-pocket of my jeans. I'm gonna get as close as I can; ya gotta reach over'n fish it out."

"Levon, don't push it too far; if you pass out you aren't gonna wake up."

“Gotta try…” his voice is thin and harsh. "Just… don't lose… key."

The hesitant scrape of Lundy's boots prod him to turn carefully and inch backward; his throat begins to constrict in the tightening loop. A cold ripple of fear spreads up through his chest and he resists the urge to start swearing. He needs to concentrate; if he screws this up, they’re both dead. 

He reaches back, his fingertips skim the thin cotton of Lundy's shirt, the heavier cloth of denim; he scrabbles down further and snags the edge of a pocket, pushes his finger into the tight opening, and slides over the hard edge of the key.

He slowly pushes and strokes the warm metal upward toward his thumb. Levon is shaking, his short gasps in the darkness make Joe begin to tremble as he forces himself to take his time. He pulls free of the confining pocket, his prize clenched tightly between his thumb and finger.

He swallows convulsively against the pressure on his throat, ignores his burning calves and focuses on manipulating the key with his fingers. He scrapes it across his cuff, searching for the keyhole as a panicked litany of, _‘Don't drop it, don't drop it, don't drop it…’_ , scurries around in his head.

The scuff of Lundy's boots, a thin wheeze, the creaking of the lanyard; a small twinge of fear in his gut spreads out and touches his heart.

Levon shouldn’t still be choking.

His heart’s pounding like it’s trying to get out of his chest and aid his partner itself. He jabs the key into the keyhole, rotates it back and forth, twists his wrist to loosen the restraint and is rewarded by a metallic snick as it falls away from his wrist.

_‘Don't drop it, don't drop it…’_ , He wriggles the key free and catches his breath as he loses his balance; instinctively reaches up to catch himself and thumps his knuckles hard against the wooden beam. He places the key on his tongue, digs his fingers into the beam and pulls himself up with one arm, frantically working the knot and slipping free of the noose.

Dropping down, he reaches out blindly and thumps against his struggling partner’s chest. He slides his hands up to the back of his neck and finds the slip knot tangled fast in his partner's long hair. Levon slumps heavily against him.

_‘Shit!’_ He squats down, wraps his arms around Levon's thighs and lifts him upward, remembering the beam just in time to keep from driving Levon's head into it. He’s surprised at his solid weight and the lean, hard muscle pressing up against him. It brings the memory of the fight at Gilley's: how the rangy cowboy was able to shake off his first punch and then proceeded to give as good as he got.

_‘Don't swallow the key…’_ , He tightens his grip on Levon's legs with his left arm and plucks the key from his mouth. How can someone so skinny be so damn heavy, where’s the damn keyhole, breathing like a winded horse, be seeing double if he could see at all. ‘Breathin’ like a winded horse’….Texan…. dammit, Lundy…. god….; _cannot_ lose another partner.

Slack muscles suddenly become taut as Levon straightens up and begins to move. Joe grits his teeth at the shift in his balance and he brings his arm back around quickly to support his partner's weight. Levon spreads his thighs and wraps his long legs around Joe's ribs, supporting his own weight in an iron grip that makes Joe grunt. He releases his hold of Levon's legs and uses both hands to find the keyhole and remove the cuffs.

Levon struggles to free himself from the noose, sags suddenly and wraps an arm around Joe's head. Joe lowers him carefully to the floor, holding the addled cowboy against him and cradling his head, making sure the noose is truly gone.

They both stand, panting and trembling, he can scarcely believe they’re alive. The reassuring push of Levon’s chest against his as he drags in breath after breath triggers Joe into wrapping his arms tightly around his partner in fierce relief.


	3. Let There Be Light

"You ok?" Joe's whisper tickles in his ear.

He squeezes the back of Joe's neck and nods against the scruff of his partner's cheek, blinking away tears. Joe inhales deeply and breathes out a word, warm but dire, into his neck.

“Levon…,”

"We — out…,” he interrupts Joe’s soft admonishment and presses his face into Joe’s shoulder to muffle his cough. “…quick."

"How we gonna get past them?"

Joe reluctantly allows him to step away but doesn’t let him go, which is fine by him. The darkness is throwing off his balance and he’s still shaking; he grips Joe’s forearm gratefully. Joe shifts his hands to his shoulders as he begins to move forward; keeping the limned door they entered to his left, he turns right, remembers the wall of crates to the left and slides his hand along the rough wood, orientating his memory of the wooden structure he had spied against the back wall when they were first shoved through the door.

He staggers into solid wood worn smooth by years of use. Joe's breath stirs his hair, making his skin pull tight into goosebumps and he answers the silent query.

"Coal chute. Climb up... outside," he swallows rapidly to appease the maddening tickle in his throat.

The next several minutes seem like hours as he carefully climbs up the ancient coal chute, trying to keep quiet as his boots slip on the oily wood. He waits in the shadows against the house, scanning for a lookout, listening to Joe's quiet cursing as he squeezes his broad shoulders through the narrow opening into the fresh air.

He heads toward the front of the house and cautiously peeks around the corner, watching for movement in the bleached landscape. He signals Joe to stop, gives a short shake of his head, and points to the other corner of the house.

They crawl past a window and as Joe nears the corner he stops abruptly, looks back at Levon, and gives a thumbs-up.

On the silent count of one - two - three, they sprint across the moonlit backyard, putting the Jimmy between themselves and the house. He carefully opens the door just enough to allow Joe to crawl inside.

"Sheriff Coyle, this is Sergeant LaFiamma, Houston P.D., over."

Joe’s watchin' him as he keeps his own wary eye on the house; he tries to ignore the slow rise of fear as nothing but static hisses from the mic.

"Sheriff Coyle, this is Sergeant LaFiamma, Houston Police Department, over."

_‘Sergeant LaFiamma, this is Sheriff Tapia, over.’_

"Sheriff Tapia," Joe answers with relief, "we're at the Brodeur place, we were ambushed by Gallardo's men, we need backup."

_‘Ambushed? You say yer lookin' for Sheriff Coyle?’_

"Yes, we’re over here to pick up Gallardo and..." he looks up at Levon's sharp intake of breath.

"Joe," he whispers urgently.

_‘Yer at the Brodeur house?’_

"Yeah - Sheriff, they're coming; we need back up..."

“We gotta go, _now_ …”

Joe drops the squawking mic and they run for the wood-line, low and fast; the dreadful pop of gunfire overtaking them just as they plunge into the darkness of the trees. They charge blindly through the woody vegetation, stumbling over rocks and fallen branches.

The ground suddenly drops out from under their feet; Joe trips and reaches out to grab a tree, but his impetus sends him crashing through the small saplings and down into the leaf litter and soft humus.

"I'm alright," he huffs at the touch on his shoulder. The warning snap of branches sends them running again, scrambling down to the bottom of the bank and picking up speed along an animal trail.

Levon spies the hulking silhouette of a fallen tree in time to vault himself across it; the soft, moist wood crumbling under his hands. His feet hit solid on the other side, but he watches in bewilderment as the ground swiftly comes up to meet him in a stunning blow.

He's jerked upward to his knees with alarming speed, sending his vision spinning like a bucking bronco. Joe's arms squeeze tight around him - a sharp jab at his ribs - the scratch of stubble against his temple.

"Levon...,"

Warm breath against his face - Joe nudging his cheek - his heavy head falling back - a brief glimpse of white-eyed panic - the shadowy canopy. He gives a small grunt of pain as Joe jerks his body again and his wayward head comes to rest against Joe's chest.

"Lissen," he slurs like a drunken man, "fin’a road."

"What the hell...,"

"Hit…,” he just can't pull enough air into his lungs, “you… go.”

A punch of dread hits Joe in the chest and spreads through his body in an icy prickle; it quickly flares into angry heat.

“Where are you hit?” He gets to his feet and grabs a double handful of Levon's shirt.

"No, time - Tapia… flag 'im down."

"I'm not leaving you," he grunts and flexes his powerful legs, lifting Levon to his feet. He ducks under his partner's arm and hoists him up across his shoulders even as he's turning, trying to find the path again. The stealthy crackle of leaves tell him it's too late to run.

Joe cries out in pain, squeezing his eyes shut against the piercing, white light that flashes to life high above them. It expands outward with eerie silence and illuminates a riven tree, jagged and hollow, that towers over them in stark relief to the shadowed forest.

Their pursuers cry out in fear and shoot at the light; the rapid popping of gunfire so close, he can hear the metallic ring of the slide recoil.

He swings around, tries to blink away the enormous, ruined tree emblazoned on his retinas and runs as if the Devil himself is at his heels. It's several moments before he realizes he can still see the trail ahead of him in perfect detail, his shadow leading the way.

"It's comin', Joe."

Levon's trepidation makes Joe stop and turn as the ball of light swiftly overtakes them and streaks ahead, hissing and popping. He searches the wildly shifting shadows, looking for their enemies, but the darkness recovers quickly and chases their brilliant companion down the path.

"Foller it."

"Are you nuts?"

"Hurry."

Cursing under his breath he pursues the light down the path, trying to stay within its fading halo. He draws in great gasps of air as he runs, his legs shaking with fatigue, when the shock of cold water brings him to a halt. He’s standing in a small creek, looking out across a large, moonlit clearing that is slowly being reclaimed by the wild. The brilliant light is gone.

"Joe, put me down, I can make it."

"No... I see... house."

"Did we run back around ta where we started?"

"No - remember... the driveway? It's... got a house."

He splashes through the creek and staggers toward the house as fast as he can manage; his jarring steps cause Levon to draw up in pain, but he makes no sound. He thumps up the front steps and across the porch, giving a fearful look toward the woods. He lowers Levon to the wooden planks and leans him up against the wall.

"You ready?" Joe pants.

Levon gives a tired nod.

"Count to three, then come in behind me."

Joe twists the doorknob, thrusts the door open, and barges into a small, dark room. An elderly man, silhouetted against a burning fire in the hearth, whirls around to face him, crouches into a fighting stance and begins to back away toward a doorway.

"I'm a police officer," he holds up his hands, "we don't mean you any harm. My partner's been shot and the sheriff is on his way. Would you help us?"

The man's look of alarm shifts to a point behind him. Levon is holding tightly to the door, his right side sagging as he slides toward the floor.

He hurries over and hefts Levon up, kicks the door shut, and drags him to a worn couch near the fireplace.

"Don't turn on any lights, there are men chasing us. Is there anyone else in the house? Do you have a weapon?"

The man shakes his head jerkily and shuffles closer. "You saw Katrina?" The man's dark eyes are wide with disbelief.

"Who is Katrina?"

"Sheriff Coyle - she's here?"

"No," he says tersely, "Sheriff Tapia is on his way."

Levon’s eyes are closed, his breathing quick and shallow. Blood soaks the right side of his shirt and has wicked into his jeans; it looks black in the dim light.

"Levon, I gotta take a look at your wound."

He pulls the shirt out of Levon’s jeans, batting away the clumsy attempt to help unbutton it. The cowboy flinches as he peels the stiff, tacky fabric away from his skin revealing a sheen of dried blood across his torso. The wound is a long, dark gash in the flesh along his ribs and a fat, glistening rivulet is suspended there, waiting to spill over. Joe blows out a gusty sigh of relief.

"Through and through - big gouge though, lost some blood," he keeps his tone level, "all that running didn't help any."

"Need ... that road, quick."

"We need to stop the bleeding, keep your knees up." He looks up at the man. "Can you get me some towels or pillowcases to use for bandages?"

"Get them ashes from the fireplace and put 'em in the wound.” He points to a dingy bucket sitting on the hearth.

"I'm not sticking dirt into an open wound; get me some towels," Joe growls.

"He's right, Joe,” Levon slurs, “ashes'll work."

He gives a snort of disbelief and walks swiftly over to the fireplace, snatching up the metal bucket sitting on the hearth.

"This can't be right, Lundy; it's a bunch of filthy soot," he grouses uncertainly, rubbing the substance between his fingers.

"Ashes are burned by fire," the man explains unhelpfully.

"They're clean," Levon clarifies, "best thing we got ta stop the bleedin'."

He scoops up a handful and pauses, necessity warring with good sense, until he sees a thick runnel of blood follow the curve of Levon's rib and spill down his side. Biting back a curse, he shoves the ashes against the ragged furrow, pressing them deep into the wound.

Levon throws back his head and gives a teeth-baring grimace, gripping the couch to keep himself still.

"Pack in as much as ya can," he groans.

He tries to be gentle in his haste, glancing at the door, expecting their pursuers to kick it in any minute. He unbuttons his own shirt and removes it, strips off his undershirt, and folds it into a makeshift bandage. Levon flinches as Joe presses it against the wound, then places his hand over Joe's to take over the pressure.

Joe stands up and shrugs back into his remaining shirt. "Is there any place safe to hide?"

"They's a root cellar under the floor here.”

"Levon, I want you both down... _ungh_ ," Joe drops to one knee. “What the hell."

“Door’s mighty heavy,” the man kneels down, "looky here, see this hole in the wood? Hook yer fingers and pull so's you can grip the edge. Prop it up with the board."

"Joe, wait..."

"I want you both in the cellar; I'm gonna try and catch Sheriff Tapia." He lifts the trapdoor with a grunt.

"Don't do it, don't go," the man cries out in despair.

"They need to be warned," he snaps in anger, as he sees Levon's brow crease with worry, "my partner needs medical help and we need back up."

The man opens his mouth to reply, looks at the opening in the floor and then at Joe, a stricken look on his face.

"I'm comin' with ya," Levon slowly sits up on the sagging couch.

"No, you're not," He jams the heavy plank against the trapdoor, "you'll start bleeding again before we clear the yard."

"There's too many of 'em, an' ya ain't got a weapon."

Joe doesn't like the labored tone of Levon's voice or the look of sleepy distress in his eyes. He wraps his arm around Levon's waist, places his shoulder under his arm, and helps him stand.

"I'll be harder to spot if it's only me."

"Dammit, Joe..."

"Look - you'll only slow me down," he replies bluntly, "if I don't make it back, wait here for help. The sheriff knows we're out here, he'll come looking for us."

The narrow staircase disappears into what looks like an open grave. He has a brief moment of doubt about his plan, but shakes it off; there’s no time to come up with a better one.

He follows the old man's careful interment into the cellar; the fluttering flame of his oil lamp illuminates the dusty, fissured planks of the stairs, blazes along the clay walls, and reveals a dark portal off to the left of the last step.

“Are you kidding me? Why are you using an oil lamp?” He can’t keep the impatience out of his voice.

“No ‘lectricity down here, and watch where ya put yer hands," he calls, "they's snakes under the house."

"Figlio di un...," he curses vigorously as he carefully navigates the steps.

He can feel Levon shaking with silent mirth. He nervously eyes the dark crawl space under the house as the cool air touches his face. The earth swallows them up and deadens their voices, looms above them in the darkness that ebbs and flows all around them. He lowers Levon to a patch of dirt floor swept clear of shadows by the dancing flame.

The cowboy flinches and gives a soft grunt as he checks the wound; he looks up when Levon places a blood-stained hand on his wrist.

"Stay here, wait it out 'til the sheriff comes," his brown eyes reflect his soft plea.

"We may not have that long. That crazy light isn't gonna keep a bunch of gun-running hoods from burning this house down on top of us."

"Somethin' ain't right, Joe...," he sighs tiredly.

"Just hang tight, okay?" Anxiety bleeds into his voice. "I'm gonna make it." He places his hand over his partner's heart and leans closer, willing him to see his conviction that all would be well.

Levon gives a slow nod, squeezes his wrist, and turns him loose. Joe rises and faces the old man; he seems sinister in the glow of the oil lamp, his features blurred by the shifting darkness and light. Joe shakes off his apprehension again and heads for the door.

"Keep quiet and wait for help - it'll come," he adds at the man's look of sorrow.

"You be careful, boy," Levon admonishes.

"I'll be back," he promises with more confidence than he feels.

"Go with God," the man breathes softly.

The blessing halts him in the doorway; suspicion unfurls like a deadly predator in his gut as he remembers the blessing of the deputy in town, but the man just wipes his eyes, easing his doubt. He flees up the stairs before he changes his mind and stays with his partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figlio di un… - Son of a…


	4. In A Bad Light

Levon ignores the man’s soft sniffling and strains to follow Joe’s progress above. The thud of the heavy trapdoor, the traveling creak of floorboards to the front door. He prays that he won't hear Joe being ambushed, but he doesn't hear anything else. Joe is gone.

The gritty drag of his boot heel sounds unnaturally loud as he sits up. He remembers how loud his boot steps had sounded outside the sheriff's office, how they had spoken in hushed tones. Joe was right: it’s too dark, and too damn quiet. His head is wobbling like a spinning top and he digs his fingers into the hard, dirt floor to stop the tremble in his arms.

A surge of guilt heats his face as he stifles the impulse to follow Joe; their arguments replay in his head, drowning out the silence. All their damn arguin’ had put them in a bad situation. Where was Sheriff Coyle? The missin’ prisoner, Gallardo, wasn't one a the men that had hung ‘em in the basement. Where was he?

The way they had been left to die. And here he is, under another house; it was beginnin’ ta be a bit tiresome. The old man is watching him, the flame of the lantern pinpoints in his eyes.

He sucks in another slow breath to steady his shaking. “My name - is Levon."

"I'm Rueben."

"Brodeur?"

"Yes."

"This yer house?"

"Yes."

Levon’s sharp tone, honed by pain, causes the man to shift his weight backward, as if he means to put some distance between them. "I'm a police officer," he reminds him, "I don't mean ya no harm." His head throbs in protest of all the air he spends talking.

"I know."

“Them people - down the road?"

“Kyle Moran lives out there.”

”Sheriff Coyle?" He pants.

"I don't know," he wipes his hand on his trousers nervously, "she stopped in ta visit, walked over ta the woods out yonder."

"Did Gallardo git loose?"

"I don't know who yer talkin' 'bout." He shakes his head back and forth. “Sheriff Coyle come a runnin’, told me ta hide; I heard her arguin’ with someone…”

“Easy Rueben,” the uneasy stirring in his gut gives him a cold chill, gonna have ta lay back down, “Joe's gettin’ us both outta here."

"No, we cain't leave,” he keens in anguish, “she's out there, somewheres," he wipes his face with his sleeve - slowly turns down the wick - whispers to himself, "I been waitin' for her ta come back..."

"What're ya doin'?"

"I need ta save the light," he says sadly; the eager darkness spills in around them. “We're goin' ta be here a while.”

"No, Sir, we ain't. Joe's bringin’ the sheriff.”

Even in the dim light, his look of pity was unmistakable. He licks his fingers.

"Your friend is never coming back."

And snuffs out the light.

==========================================

Joe crouches down low as he eases open the front door, expecting to be sniped immediately. He scans the overgrown front yard for movement and sees the ruts of the driveway, almost totally hidden by the weather-beaten arch of tall grass.

He surveys the expanse of weeds once more: no movement, no sound, and - he frowns briefly - no crazy light. He takes a deep breath and bolts out of the doorway. Staying low, he plunges into the overgrowth, fighting to keep his balance as his - _’fancy, leather loafers’_ \- slide around on his feet. He stumbles in the ruts, thrashes through the shaggy grass, and snags his feet in the tussocks and runners that have nearly obliterated the road to the house.

He clenches his teeth and growls as he straightens up and begins taking leaping strides, counting on his speed to keep him from being picked off by a shooter, heedless of the brambles that tug at his clothing and nip his skin. As he nears the road he catches the distant flash of approaching headlights and suddenly realizes how vulnerable he will be when he flags down the sheriff: silhouetted by their headlights, the noise and confusion masking the arrival of any pursuers, how they would all be targets.

He staggers from the overgrowth onto the road and gathers his stride, toes skimming the earth in a ground-eating sprint; he pumps his arms in a tight, hard rhythm. The twitch between his shoulder blades of an imagined bullseye propels him faster.

The lights of the lead vehicle sweep around the curve and blind him; he puts his hands out to shield his eyes and slows to a fast walk.

Joe looks nervously behind him and begins waving his arms to get their attention. He's getting ready to dodge to the side of the road when the headlights dip violently toward the ground, causing the pickup truck behind it to shudder to a halt, and the next pickup to fishtail to a stop behind it.

Doors swing open, men shout to one another, and vague forms rush toward him in the bright haze of swirling dust.

"Stop where ya are," a voice commands, "get yer hands where I can see 'em."

"Sheriff Tapia?"

"Get down on the ground - _now_.”

Several figures step between him and the glare of the headlights; a sobering shock goes through him as he realizes how many guns are pointed at him.

He laces his fingers behind his head and slowly sinks to his knees in the dusty road, which prompts their cautious approach. He sees their eyes move over him nervously and Joe looks down at himself; his shirt is open - he’s covered in blood.

"I'm Sergeant LaFiamma," he clears his throat to banish the sight of Levon's blood from his voice, "with the Houston Police Department. I'm the one you spoke with on the radio."

"Where's yer badge?"

"The men who captured us have our identification and weapons. They're in a house across the creek, further down the road; we managed to get away. They shot my partner, Sergeant Lundy."

"Where is he?"

"In another house, just up the road and through the weeds to the left. There's a man looking after him; I hid them in the cellar…,” he looks over at the short, stocky man in a uniform and badge, and back to the gruff man in western attire, “… are you Sheriff Tapia?"

The man tilts his head and frowns, but after a moment he nods, "Yeah, I'm Tapia."

"The men who are after us - they're still out there," he says pointedly.

"Everybody take cover," the sheriff shouts. He gives Joe a hard look and lowers his weapon. "On yer feet."

As one, the crowd of men stream into the woods, gathering as close as the underbrush would allow. Their eyes are searching outward, but they are listening to their sheriff as he barks out instructions in a low growl.

He turns to his deputy, ”Mark, I want ya ta take Silas and his boys, and check out the Brodeur house." He nods at Joe. "Yer leadin' the way."

"Ronnie, I want you, and the rest of ya'll ta my left, outside the house ta watch fer trouble - Doc, you go with 'em."

"Thought I might."

The sheriff gives a wry smile and looks to his right. "The rest of ya'll are comin' with me ta the house down the road."

"Be careful, Sheriff, the basement is full of crates; I'm guessing there's enough weapons and ammunition to last a month."

"They want ta play it that a way, I'll just set the house afire an' fill in the crater." He looks at his deputy. "Let's go."

=====================================

"Rueben?"

He barely has enough air to get the word out; his heart is pounding so hard it’s sucking all the air out of his lungs. He listens for movement but it’s so quiet all he can hear is the ringing in his ears.

Rueben's story is the same as theirs - almost - isn't it? He swallows the rising nausea back down to the heavy dread sitting in his gut.

He compels his shaking limbs to drag him across the cool, dirt floor. He thumps into a wooden vegetable bin and claws his way up it to stand. He staggers blindly toward the door and trips over the raised sill of the entrance, falls heavily on his wounded side, strikes his head on the earthen wall - which means he's at the foot of the stairs.

“Rueben!”

Is that a presence nearby in the darkness or his imagination - conjurin’ up Rueben, an axe poised high to hiss through the air and bite deep into his leg.

He kicks out in blind panic and grasps the bottom stair. It feels like ants are skittering across his skin and his hair is standing on end so hard, someone might as well be pulling it. His boots slip on the hard wood as he scrabbles up the stairs, ignoring the sharp pain in his knees and shins.

His head thumps against the trapdoor and he braces his back against it, tries to lift it, but it's too heavy. He stifles a groan at the flare of pain in his side and rolls over, tries to push the door open. The edges of the stairs bite into his spine and hips, his muscles burn and his arms drop limply to his sides.

A touch of night air cools his face and tempts him to escape the cellar by crawling under the house, but he cannot bear the thought of coming face to face with a snake in the dark. He places his hand over a tickle on his side and it comes away wet with blood. Joe's shirt is gone, but there’s no way in hell he's goin' back down there ta find it.

His arms and legs twitch in sluggish sympathy as he makes another effort to lift the trap door, but his body is tired, it wants to rest; his mind churns and spins.

He recalls the warm compassion in Joe's eyes before he left; it was the first time he'd seen anythin' but sullen anger. The resentment from their first meetin’ lingered and it had fueled his goadin’ words and their petty arguments ever since.

With Joe it was all fight or flight, and since he didn’t have the choice of runnin’ away, he fought: at the airport, when he was forced ta move to a new city; at work, where he was an outsider; and here, where they’ve been menaced in the darkness time and ag’in.

If he doesn't make it outta here, there will be holy hell ta pay when Joe gets back ta Houston. A hell he doesn't deserve.

==============================

Deputy Mark Villanueva cautiously opens the door to the Brodeur house. The narrow beam of his flashlight exposes small snapshots of the hollow room: the cold, soot blackened hearth, a musty couch, a large table, the reflection of his light off an antique picture hanging on the wall.

Cobwebs sagging with dust flutter gently as he treads warily through the room. He listens for any sound that would indicate someone is here, but there’s only the shuffling steps of his men as they slowly enter behind him. He sweeps the beam across the floor and sees where the dust has been disturbed.

"Spread out, check the house.” He looks up at the tall Houston cop, "I don't see nobody."

"They're under the floor, in some kind of cellar."

"Where is it?"

"Over there, near the table…”

He holds his arm out. "Let them do it."

He nods to Dorrie and Silas, who wrestle the trap door up at the cop’s instruction, and inhale sharply at the unexpected sight of a body lying at the top of the steps. The man's head was bent sharply forward, and one of his arms hung through the open rise of the steps.

"Levon, _god_..." The Houston cop rushes forward, causing the men around him to raise their weapons in alarm. He dodges their grasping hands and drops to the floor, crawling through their stumbling feet to get to the man on the steps. He straddles the body and squats down, hugging him to his chest as he tries to wake the still form.

"Ya need ta git yer hands where I can see 'em..."

The big man struggles with the limp weight of his partner; his countenance stricken as he looks up at him.

Doc Macias places a hand on his arm. "Mark..."

"Dammit, Doc..."

He jams his pistol into its holster and helps drag the wounded man out onto the floor.

The rest of the night was a chaotic whirlwind of movement: scores a people millin' about, callin’ back and forth, checkin' every room in the house; the business end of their guns leadin’ the way.

Doc and the Houston cop workin' on the wounded man, gettin' the bleedin' stopped.

One a Silas' boys, hotfootin' it up the cellar stairs, wide eyed and hollerin' his name.

He grew up here, knows everyone around in three counties, went to a small college knowin' he'd return to help his family and community. In the few years he had worked as a deputy to augment his income from the family ranch, he never dreamed he'd see a day when the stuff he reads in the paper, 'bout bigger towns and cities, would ever come to pass here.


	5. Trip The Light Fantastic

He watches Joe slowly emerge from the depths of sleep and draw a deep breath, no doubt filling his nose with the smell of clean sheets. He exhales in contentment, rolls on his side, and blinks awake.

Joe’s eyes drop to the bruising across his throat, shift to the bag of fluid supplying the I.V. in his arm, and orientate back to his quiet regard.

“You okay?”

“M’fine,” comes out as a breathy rasp.

Joe frowns and looks at his throat again.

“Don’t look at me like that;” his voice improves to hoarse, prepubescent teenager, “any gunshot wound ya can get up and walk away from, is a good gunshot wound.”

“Is that one of the many wise sayings that people from Texas live by? Oh, and, you didn’t walk away.”

“Yeah, didn't think it was bad 'til my legs quit workin'."

"You're pretty tough - heavy too; I'm beginning to feel sorry for your horse."

Levon smiles tiredly. "Did they find Gallardo?"

"I don't know, I took them straight to you and we came back here; nobody's telling me anything. They went after those men from the house… you really okay?"

He nods through his cough. ”Yup, thanks ta you."

"Wasn't me that had a key."

"You was the one that used it ta save our lives."

“Levon, you almost died trying to…”

"Good mornin’, Joe,” they both give a start as a woman approaches briskly. “How’re ya feelin’, Sweetie?” She captures Levon's wrist and consults her watch.

"I been worse...," Levon mumbles uncertainly.

She gives him a sympathetic wink. “I’ll get ya some warm tea and honey for your throat, Sugar.”

"Is Sheriff Tapia around?" Clearly, Joe has already met her.

"He'll be along directly,” she switches her merry attention back to him, “and Doc Mathias will be in ta check on you later this mornin’. He had ta run out to the Upton ranch and check on a pregnant mare, inoculate a couple a Treymon’s goats, and then on out ta give Becca Ketchum a tetanus shot.”

He discreetly slides his eyes over to LaFiamma in silent query, but the answer is spread all across his face; the boy even has dimples.

She catches him anyway. “Don’t worry, Sugar, he’s a bonafide M.D.; he’s also pretty good with livestock. Either a you boys hungry?"

"Yes, Ma'am," in chorus.

“Well, good.” She finishes her count and leans down, pulling at his blanket.

Levon places a hand on the blanket. "Uh…, I'm a little short on clothes…,” his face feels like the end of a lit cigarette.

"I know, I helped Doc patch ya up last night,“ her eyes sparkle with humor, "got half the town out there wantin' ta know all about you two. Bunch a crazy gossip goin' around; be glad when the sheriff gets back."

"Me too,” Joe rubs his eyes, “I have no idea what's going on."

She checks the bandage and replaces the blanket. "That was good thinkin’, usin' ashes ta clot the blood. Not many folks know ta do that."

“I can’t take credit for it, Rueben told me to do it."

The smile drops from her face like a rock, she blinks, "I'll get yer breakfast started." and bustles out of the room.

"What the hell was that about?"

"Ain't sure," Levon frowns, "I hope Rueben's alright. They find Sheriff Coyle?"

“I don’t know, Sheriff Tapia showed up with a whole damn posse; they weren't too keen on introductions." He sits up and stretches his arms upward, pulls at a borrowed shirt he’s wearing. "I'm gonna go track down our clothes,” he yawns.

He’s about to tease Joe about his lumberjack shirt when Sheriff Tapia marches through the door with a grim look on his face, followed by a small group of men that take up positions along the walls of the room.

He drags himself up against the headboard while Joe stands up with his own grim expression, walks around to his side of the bed, and places himself between the group and his partner.

"Did you get the men at the house?" Joe’s question sounds matter-of-fact but his stance says, _‘fight’_.

The sheriff nods slowly. "Yep, all three of 'em."

"Was Gallardo there too?"

"Nope, no Gallardo."

"Is Rueben all right?" He ignores the jittery dread writhing in his stomach. The man may have scared the hell out of him, but he was elderly and in distress, and he had promised him a rescue.

This sets off a low hum of uneasy murmurs, a collective shifting of weight. The sheriff seems angry but uncertain; Levon can see it in his eyes.

"You spoke with Rueben?"

"Yessir," he says with quiet conviction.

"Is somebody gonna tell us what the hell is going on?" Joe bursts out in agitation. "Where is Sheriff Coyle?" He raises his voice to be heard over the growing din of voices in the room. "She was supposed to have Gallardo in custody and transfer him to us." Levon's light touch on his arm halts his angry tirade.

The sheriff raises his arm for quiet.

He walks across the room and grabs a chair, brings it back and straddles it, with his arms across the backrest. He speaks slowly, as if his words weigh heavily on him.

"I need ya to start at the beginnin', don't leave nothin' out, no matter how small. Help me understand what's goin' on."

"Help you understand?” Joe sits down on the bed beside him. “We don't know what the hell..."

"Joe.” Levon's soft rebuke halts his indignation. "We showed up in town lookin' fer you, found yer deputy instead; he wouldn't sign the transfer papers..."

"Found the papers on my desk this mornin'," he nods.

"The deputy said Gallardo wasn't there..."

"He's there, in the back, in a cell."

"He been there the whole time?"

"Yep, right where I left 'im last night."

"So, the deputy sent us into an ambush," Joe rumbles, ugly and mean.

The roomful of onlookers stir again; the sheriff turns his head slightly and it settles them.

"No," he gives them a hard look, "I'll speak for Mark’s character and integrity; everyone here, hell, everyone in town will vouch for ‘im. He’s an outstandin’ officer and member of the community."

Joe presses his fingertips to his forehead. “I don’t understand…” and he can tell Joe's makin' an effort to rein it in, “the deputy said Sheriff Coyle was waiting with Gallardo at the Brodeur house."

"Rueben said she was out there too," he backs Joe up, “she told ‘im ta hide, he heard her arguin’ with somebody.”

The sheriff looks down at the floor, but Levon can see a look of pain cross his face. "Did ya see Sheriff Coyle?" He asks quietly.

A small twinge of dread rises up through his chest. ”No, Rueben said he was waitin' on her ta git back."

"You spoke to Rueben."

"Sheriff, you've already asked him that, dammit.”

The sheriff sits there, lost in thought; the room so quiet Levon can hear the rasp of morning stubble as he wearily rubs his face.

"What aren't ya tellin' us?" Levon prods.

He straightens up and clears his throat decisively. “I spoke with Gallardo; he says he has nothin’ ta do with the men at the house, never heard of ‘em.”

“You’re taking the word of a criminal over… where the hell is Rueben? He’ll back us up - get him in here.”

“We found Rueben Brodeur’s dead body down in that root cellar,” he points his chin at Levon, "where we found you."

Joe jumps to his feet and draws up to his full height; heavy chest thrust out, fists clenched, and a thunderous scowl on his face.

"Levon didn't kill anyone," he growls darkly.

"I didn't say..." he holds a hand up, pushes up from the chair.

"What? What, are you saying?"

The men against the wall begin to step forward.

His partner jabs a finger at Tapia, bears his teeth like an angry dog. "He would never hurt anyone..."

"Joe, wait, calm down..." The last thing they need is Joe beltin' an officer of the law in the mouth, 'specially when they were sorely outnumbered.

"If ya'd just hear me out..." Tapia trying to soothe.

"Where is your deputy..."

“He’s got nothin’…” the sheriff’s voice rises in irritation.

"He's the one that tried to get us killed!” Joe roared.

"Dammit, Joe!"

He's half out of the bed, naked or not, trying to get a hold of him. Joe quickly wraps his arms around him, mindful of the stitches and the I.V. line, and drags him back onto the bed.

"Joe," he grips Joe’s shoulders and fights against the light-headed swirl that threatens to take him out of this fight. Joe’s eyes are full of sullen anger and he moves his hands to Joe's chest. "Please," he tries to catch his breath, his voice soft, "let ’im talk, let ’im finish."

The sheriff takes his opening.

"I know ya didn't kill Rueben,” he rushes through it like he’s yanking a band-aid from a wound, “there was nothin' but bones and clothes down there. We didn't know he had a hidden root cellar; we been searchin', and wonderin' for almost five years now."

The heebie-jeebies are back, and this time it slithers up his throat and bursts from his mouth. _“God!”_

Joe blinks and concern replaces anger. "Levon," Joe says softly.

"He said you was never comin' back," he can’t stop the fear spilling out of him, "he put out the light."

"Is that why you were at the top of the steps?"

He nods, his eyes wide with dread. “Thought he was gonna kill me."

“You ain’t the only one that was scared,” the sheriff breaks in, “Gallardo started screamin’ bloody murder the minute I opened the door this mornin’. Says he kept hearin’ footsteps all night but couldn’t see anybody. Found ‘im under his bunk.”

As they try to comprehend that, he’s beginning to feel awkward as he realizes: Joe still has him in a grip, he still has his hands on Joe’s chest, and every man in the room is huddled together at their bedside; nervous, wide-eyed, and flat out spooked. All they’re missin’ is a campfire in the dark.

“Five years - Sheriff Coyle too?”

He nods. "Damn shame ya didn't find her too; her family - their hearts'll be broken, again. We searched both places, and the woods; ya’ll are lucky ya got away.”

Levon inhaled sharply. ”The Light."

The sheriff stands up straighter; the group of men crowd in closer. "The Light?”

"When me and Joe made a run fer it, the woods at the back a the house..."

"Levon went down at the base of this huge, broken tree; this bright light appeared and scared the hell out of everybody, that’s how we got away."

"It came after us though, and we follered it to the creek…”

"That's where we lost it and ran to the house."

"The Brodeur house." Tapia began rubbing his face again, like he was trying to wake himself up.

"Yeah, reckon we ended up there after all - oh, damn - Joe, the creek."

"What about it?"

"We lost it at the creek; it couldn't foller us across runnin’ water."

“What does that mean?”

The look of pain is back on the sheriff’s face and Levon knows he’s figured it out too.

"The place has a reputation fer bein' haunted,” the uncertainty is still there, but the sheriff’s anger is replaced by bewilderment. “No one goes out there anymore. People been seein' a light around there the last," he takes a deep breath to steady his voice, “five years." The words fall from his lips like lead.

Levon says with quiet somberness, "I think we know where Sheriff Coyle is."

=========================================================

"Gittin' late."

"Yeah, and it's gonna be a long trip back," Joe sighs wearily.

“Least we ain’t haulin’ Gallardo back with us.”

“I thought he was gonna hug those Rangers; good thing he was cuffed.”

“Yer welcome ta stay another couple a days,” deputy Villanueva offers, “heal up a little more.”

“Better not,” Levon drawls, “my partner misses watchin’ his grass grow.”

“Yeah, it’s a little too exciting around here for my blood.”

The deputy smiles politely as the men share a laugh. ”I can give ya directions to a shortcut if ya don't mind a little four-wheelin'," he nods toward the Jimmy, "it takes ya over the ridge 'stead a goin' around it."

"The Jimmy can handle that easy," Levon raises an eyebrow at Joe, "wanna go for it?"

"Sure, as long as it gets us outta here."

"Be right back."

They lean against the front of the Jimmy, looking up at the fierce, blue expanse of sky.

"Guess it ain't as borin' out here as ya thought."

"I can't believe how it went so bad, so fast,” Joe shakes his head, “we were in trouble the minute we pulled up in the yard. They could have fired on us from cover, all we had was the Jimmy."

"Hindsight bein' twenty-twenty - I took up a position too close ta the house; wearin' a Stetson can be a drawback sometimes. I should a hung back with a rifle."

"Hell, we should’ve both dropped back, radioed Sheriff Coyle, and had her bring Gallardo outta the damn house."

“Was no Sheriff Coyle, or Gallardo.”

“Don’t remind me; if that deputy shows his face, I’ll kick his butt. Let's get outta here before it gets dark, Levon."

He gives a short laugh at the slight plea in Joe's voice. "Had enough a ghost huntin'?"

"To last me a lifetime."

"Yer in charge a the directions." He heads to the driver's side of the Jimmy.

"Oh no, I'm driving, Lundy," he blocks Levon's path, "gimme the keys."

"I can drive, it's just a few stitches."

"And blood loss, and trauma, and..."

"Fine," he gives Joe a narrow look, "but we're still drivin' in shifts; I take over after four hours..."

"We'll see, but since I'm driving, I get control of the radio," he crows.

"Cain't pick up many stations this far out," he grins.

"Figures."

"Guess we'll have ta shoot the breeze fer a while, till we get closer ta Austin."

"Yeah," he smiles, "guess we will."

"Hey, got yer directions here." The sheriff waves a piece of paper at them as he and deputy Villanueva emerge from the jail.

"Sergeants," Tapia nods to them deferentially. “Me and Mark want ta thank ya again for settin’ things right; findin’ Sheriff Coyle and Rueben, and helpin’ us get those men."

“Well,” Joe looks around apprehensively, “we had some help.”

"Glad we could do our part, Sheriff.”

"Yeah, thanks for the backup, man,” Joe shakes their hands, “but where’s your other deputy? The one that sent us after Sheriff Coyle.” He added, at their frowns.

The lawmen look at each other in confusion. "Who'd ya say sent ya out there?”

"Yer other deputy: tall,” he raises his hand over his Stetson, “older guy; blue eyes, long hair; the one that got this whole mess started.“

“Dammit, he’s got that look again, Lundy,” Joe growls apprehensively.

Sheriff Tapia sticks his thumbs in his belt and gives them a measuring look. “He wasn’t a deputy; he’s Alcides Escarra. He was the sheriff here for over twenty-five years, until he died of a heart attack - thirteen years ago.”

The men stand in the quiet street as the last rays of the sunset retreat from the advancing shadows of dusk. Levon looks up at the glitter of the first star and it stirs a familiar unease inside him.

"Vai con Dio...," Joe crosses himself, "can we..."

"Get the hell outta Dodge? Oh yeah."

Both men practically leap into the Jimmy. Joe cranks the engine and gives a last nod to the lawmen as they raise their hands in bemused farewell.

Levon nervously shifts in his seat as he scans the street; while Joe, trying to preserve their dignity, grips the wheel hard to keep from shoving the gas pedal to the floor.

Joe raises his hand and opens his mouth to speak, then thumps it back on the steering wheel and looks at him, nonplussed.

"I don't know what ta tell ya, LaFiamma," he nods to the road ahead, "if it was just me, I'd be inclined ta think I dreamed the whole damn thing."

"It was a nightmare," Joe replies in a tight voice, "I didn't think we were gonna make it." He looks away and watches the road ahead.

"I never doubted it. We work well together, just like Lieutenant said."

"When we aren't butting heads," Joe snorts.

"I don't mind, it helps me think," Levon grins.

"I'll keep that in mind," he grins back, then draws a deep breath. "I don't wanna take that shortcut."

"Way ahead a ya." He crumples the paper and throws it out the window.

“I’m mad as hell at that depu…sheriff; he sent us into almost certain death, with no warning."

"Lord A'mighty, don't speak ill a the dead, leastways 'til we get back ta Houston."

"Well, at least Reuben is out of that cellar."

"I got my own issues with Rueben." Levon runs a hand through his hair, "I'll never go down into a root-cellar agin'."

"I'm sorry, Levon..."

"No. I'd a done the same thing; I mean, how was we ta know that he was…”

"I still can't believe that he... that I didn't know..."

"Makes ya wonder if there ain't a whole lot more goin' on around us that we ain't payin' attention to."

"Yeah, hell of a town to live in," Joe mutters as he looks at the side-view mirror.

"Don't look back, LaFiamma."

Joe raises a questioning eyebrow at Levon’s warning.

"It might not be there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vai con Dio. - Go with God

**Author's Note:**

> End Notes: Thank you, JoeyPare, for your hard work in keeping Houston Knights alive on the Internet; and thank you to my dynamic friend Jenjo for her encouragement over the years, and for not rolling her eyes (much) whenever I said, ‘I’m almost done.’


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